Raven Feathers
by Soleil Fonce
Summary: Dark fic. There is only one Harry Potter, right? There may be only one of the person, but there are many more dimensions of the mind. Though, maybe some shouldn't be seen by the world. HD Slash. Split-personalities. Though there is romance, its vastly ho
1. Claiming Territory

**Title:** Raven Feathers  
  
**Author:** MalfoySlave  
  
**Rating:** R  
  
**Pairing(s):** HP/DM; (not sure which others yet)  
  
**Summary:** Dark fic. There is only one Harry Potter, right? There may be only one of the person, but there are many more dimensions of the mind. Though, maybe some shouldn't be seen by the world. H/D Slash. Split-personalities. Though there is romance, its vastly horror and not for the light of heart.  
  
**Disclaimers and Author's Notes:** Characters belong to JK Rowling, the plot to me. This fic was inspired by Linkin Park's two songs, "Papercut" and "Crawling". This IS slash. It will come into play later, later in the story, though it will be widely hinted at all throughout it. Homophobes: Leave here and never return! I hate you! This is also a *dark* fic. There will be a lot of dark characterizations. Dark OOCness. Also, this will include Dark!Harry. If anyone has a problem with that, leave. Now. And anyone very light of heart, don't bother. For those who dislike Dark!Harry and still stay, know now that this fic is going to have a happy ending. Be happy. And, there is no point in flaming since I feel very good about this fic and nothing you say can effect me. DO NOT bother trying. I will flame back, and I aim low. *wink*   
  
**Warnings:** I was thinking and I decided that I had better put some warnings up here. Slash, mild-violence, sexual encounters (not as far as NC-17, but still), **split-personalities**, botched spells, OotP spoilers, morbidness, **Dark!Harry** (for now), and lots of confusion. Possible **Mpreg** in later, LATER chapters. Or if there's a sequel.  
  
"Speech"  
  
' Thought ' (might be in italics, who knows.)  
  
+++break in time  
  
*** flashback (if there are any)  
  
  


---------**Chapter One**---------

  


-Claiming Territory-

  
  
  
  
The very moment Harry Potter laid down on his deep crimson bed at exactly 11pm, he was obscured by dreams. Not to say he was in a deep sleep, but he dreamed nonetheless. He moved not at all as the images flooded his mind; rather, he stayed eerily calm. One finger on his left hand twitched just slightly as a particularly bloodied picture flickered behind his closed eyelids. The red life stained the dim mental screen at the front of his mind. But, these were images he was accustomed to.  
  
Ringing in his ears were the screams of people being thrown yards at a time by dark and pale green bursts of light. One young girl was tossed suddenly from beyond his line of vision into a small brick building, blood seemingly carrying in the air behind her. From what? Simple-her left leg was severed roughly from the knee down. A tall dark man rushed over to her, limping on his right leg. A flash of realization dawned on his face when he saw that her neck was crooked, bones shattered. The realization was followed closely by shock and pain, then rested on calm defeat.  
  
Slowly, the man drew his wand from his torn coat pocket and aimed it steadily at his own temple. Eyes locked on the broken girl's body, he whispered two words, muted by the limits of the dream, and a brilliant flash of green light threw him to the ground.  
  
Dead.  
  
At exactly 11:15pm, Harry Potter's eyes opened, dark and liquefied from sleep. Slowly he rose from the bed and drew the almost black curtains back. The moon was gleaming, half full, from the stone rimmed window, white rays smooth on the thick carpeted, wine red floor. With a pale hand, he pushed the glass panes open and a rush of cool air struck him, brushing back the messy midnight black hair. Slowly, as if almost uncertain, he lifted his leg onto the sill, resting heavily on his knee, and hoisted the rest of his body up.  
  
There he kneeled for minutes, eyes trained on the bleak stars in the far distance.  
  
Then, in a single animated motion, he lunged forward into the dark.  
  
From outside, it appeared that a large black raven had emerged from the open window, wings spread in a span of freedom. It fluttered for a moment, then disappeared completely into the night.  
  
  


++++++++  


  
  
It was approximately a quarter to two in the morning when the last man able to strand straight was slain. The blood that had been leaking from his earlier head wound had long ago dried to a brittle film over his forehead and matted his smooth mahogany hair. He was lying flat, on the hard, cold ground, arms and legs spread-eagled, eyes close in death, on his stomach.  
  
All seemed peaceful for a time, save for the hushed whisper of voices a few yards away. The man was dead now so his cries were no longer heard, his limbs no longer flailing, his eyes-eyes of a pale blue hue- were no longer wide with horror and pain. He was tranquil in death, seemingly happy with the afterlife. He was undisturbed until a tall dark shadow grew over him, blocking the few moon rays from reaching his languid corpse.  
  
The figure casting the shadow was cloaked in a thick black material. His narrow face was covered completely by a nondescript white mask. The hood of the cloak was drawn over the top of the mask, securing it in its place. In his right hand, pale, spidery fingers clasped his wand.  
  
This man, disguised and masked, stood stock-still over the body, contemplating his next action. He was reached up with his left hand and took the mask off. Cool air licked his now bare skin, sending the tiniest, barest shiver through his nerves. Also, a heavy scent of burning human flesh met his senses. It was good though; it meant another small victory, even if it barely met the needs for the overall plan.  
  
Only a little ways away, a group of some twelve people were talking in low monotones with one another. Their masks had been removed from their faces and were now resting gently atop their heads. A few of them had small, almost invisible bruises on their faces. Every few moments, one or two of them would glance up towards the sky. The sky remained empty.  
  
This was how it went on for about twenty minutes of time. The sky was faintly beginning to lighten. No one would come. The little town had been very excluded from real civilization. Not to say they weren't keeping up with times, no. There had been plenty of muggle devices-computers, telephones, stereos- in the homes. It was merely that the town had been many miles from the closest city. There was little doubt in the conclusion that no one would realize for some time the massacred state the town was in.  
  
It seemed, after time, that the group was waiting for no one. They had acted out orders with no command, it seemed, destroying what was in their wake and waiting blindly for the voice that wouldn't follow.  
  
And then there was a muffled, faint pop.  
  
As one, the men (and few women) turned towards the noise, faces expressionless and eyes filled with eagerness. An overly tall form was standing before them, hidden entirely in the folds of a thick gray cloak. The moon reflected two narrow glints of burning ovals behind the drawn hood. The material fell all the way to the stony ground, pooling slightly around hidden feet. Slowly, a thin, unmarred hand appeared from the folds of the cloak and reached up to drop the heavy hood back.  
  
The pale, narrow face was a perfect porcelain replica of serpentine. Smooth and flawless with tilted deep red irises ringed with a dark circle of black. It was snake-like in appearance, drawn long with high cheekbones and waxen, hard flesh. The lipless, smooth mouth was curved faintly in a smirk as the crimson eyes surveyed the damage of the little village.  
  
Behind his figure, in the bleak sky, a raven's cry rang out nearby. It echoed twice and faded. A great sum peered up towards the glowing moon, searching the sky for the bird. There was nothing but the dim yellow stars and the gleaming globe among them for some time. The raven appeared to the left of their gaze; its head cocked downward, another shrill cry bubbling up from its throat. A single glossy feather floated gently from where it flew, landing desolately on the ground.  
  
Following the feather in a graceful dive, the large bird landed beside it, its clawed feet digging into a soft shallow spot of dirt. It tilted its head and looked closely at the eyes watching him.   
  
Then, the raven was a man. Well, maybe not a _man_, per say, but a _young man_, about sixteen or seventeen.   
  
"Potter."  
  
He lifted his gaze sharply, jade eyes meeting the much darker, blood-coloured ones, but pointedly ignored him and parted a way through the Death Eaters. The scene that met his eyes was both sickening and disgusting but at the same time, all together relieving. They hadn't fouled up the plans, at least. The buildings were still intact, which had been the main task.  
  
There were three piles of bodies down the road between some houses. They were charred and smoking, and he realized with a raw suddenness that they had burned the bodies. He didn't bother wondering why though, it was pointless to ask. He looked around the clearing before the town and saw the single bloody-headed body lying in front of a red-bricked home.  
  
He walked over to it and stared down at the serene face caked with dried blood. Were the man not dead, he would've been infinitely attractive. Soft dark hair that was glimmering, even in the dim moonlight, like woven silk, it looked like it was almost asking to be touched. The man, physically, had been beautiful. A stunningly gorgeous specimen of modern life, he supposed. But then he imagined the soft, too pretty face twisted in pain and despair. He decided then that he looked better in death.  
  
Calmly, he turned back. Not only were the Death Eaters following him with their eyes, but also so was their master. They were all calm now; some sneering at him half-heartedly, some truly irritated by the sight of him, the rest completely impassive. This was the evil that had haunted him so long. These people, nearly untouched, were who had caused this disaster, this destruction. But he was like them wasn't he?  
  
  
No, no, Raven; don't think about what you're doing. Just think of what you want to be doing.  
  
He smiled faintly, an eerily cold expression. "Everything seems perfect from what I've seen," he said softly, watching the Death Eaters from the corner of his eye.  
  
"Good. We'll begin bringing them here tomorrow, then, shall we?"  
  
"That should be fine. No one will notice what has happened for at least a week, I would think. That's time enough to settle for a while." He spoke easily and fluently, as if the coolness wasn't settling heavily on his chest. He turned back to the Death Eaters. His eyes passed over them slowly, running through the names of who was currently present in his mind. "Knott." A dark-haired man stepped forward, head inclined. "Which of the houses have cellars?"  
  
"We marked them in red. There-"  
  
"How many?"  
  
"I… I think about nine."  
  
Harry nodded. He looked to his former foe, contemplating for a moment. Nine. Twelve or less could fit in each. It sounded about right. "Is that enough," he asked suddenly.   
  
"For now," was Voldemort's only reply. It was absent minded, and Harry saw that the Dark Lord was studying the surroundings carefully.  
  
'For wards,' he thought. Yes, they would need wards. Even if it was for only a week, maybe less. They couldn't risk it.  
  
He looked up towards the sky. It was paling awfully fast. If he left now he could make it back by just six, if he was lucky. Maybe by seven. "I'll take my leave," he said. "I have to make it back by eight, if anything."  
  
With an acknowledging inclination of the head, he took flight, taking on the air-born form and drifting into the morning sky.  
  
Below him, the ground was scattered with more wreckage than had been noticeable from the ground. They, himself and the Dark Lord, had only to hope that there *were* no other rural villages around.  
  
  


++++++++  


  
  
At 7:30am, Harry J. Potter was sitting on the edge of his bed in the Gryffindor Boys' dorm, yawning and stretching languidly. The rest of the boys were crawling out of their own beds, mumbling to themselves absently about 'waking growing students up too bloody early just to go to class.'  
  
  
  


-----To be continued in next chapter-----

  
  
  
**Author's Note**-  
I know its confusing but that is just the beginning. The next chapter will be much longer. I already have it partially written, five pages so far. I want to put it up as soon as possible. Feedback will only make me write quicker. ^__^ 


	2. Night Flees the Day

**Title:** Raven Feathers  
  
**Author:** MalfoySlave  
  
**Rating:** R  
  
**Pairing(s):** HP/DM; (not sure which others yet)  
  
**Summary:** Dark fic. There is only one Harry Potter, right? There may be only one of the person, but there are many more dimensions of the mind. Though, maybe some shouldn't be seen by the world. H/D Slash. Split-personalities. Though there is romance, its vastly horror and not for the light of heart.  
  
**Disclaimers and Author's Notes:** Characters belong to JK Rowling, the plot to me. This fic was inspired by Linkin Park's two songs, "Papercut" and "Crawling". This IS slash. It will come into play later, later in the story, though it will be widely hinted at all throughout it. Homophobes: Leave here and never return! I hate you! This is also a *dark* fic. There will be a lot of dark characterizations. Dark OOCness. Also, this will include Dark!Harry. If anyone has a problem with that, leave. Now. And anyone very light of heart, don't bother. For those who dislike Dark!Harry and still stay, know now that this fic is going to have a happy ending. Be happy. And, there is no point in flaming since I feel very good about this fic and nothing you say can effect me. DO NOT bother trying. I will flame back, and I aim low. *wink*   
  
**Warnings:** Slash, mild-violence, sexual encounters (not as far as NC-17, but still), split-personalities, botched spells, OotP spoilers, morbidness, Dark!Harry (for now), and lots of confusion. Possible Mpreg in later, LATER chapters. Or if there's a sequel.  
  
"Speech"  
  
' Thought ' (might be in italics, who knows.)  
  
+++break in time  
  
*** flashback (if there are any)  
  
**Chapter Note**: This chapter gets a bit more insightful to Harry. Sorta. XD You get more inside his head. It's from 2nd POV, rather than 3rd, is what I mean.  
  


---------**Chapter Two**---------  
-Night Flees the Day-

  
  
The Potions classroom, a mere dungeon at the heart of Hogwarts' lower levels, was stifling hot for once, instead of the usual damp, groggy coolness. Most of the students were sweating horribly, little beads of liquid trickling down their backs, causing their clothing to stick to their flesh. They were all pleased when the class ended and they were able to flee into the cool corridor.  
  
Harry was walking between Ron and Hermione, leaving the hated classroom behind them, and listening to them argue half-heartedly about something or other, when an occurrence he would describe as downright odd happened. The three of them were about to turn a corner with the rest of the Gryffindors when Harry heard someone call his name behind them. Frowning slightly, he turned to see who it could be and was met with the impassive face of Pansy Parkinson, who was walking slowly towards him. Loosely held in her right hand, he noticed an envelope. What in the world could she have for him?  
  
"Potter, I need to talk to you," she said stiffly, stopping a foot or two away from him. No one moved for a moment. "Alone," she added, glaring contemptuously at Ron and Hermione.  
  
"Sod off, Parkinson," Ron started, returning the glare. He nudged Harry in the side, "C'mon, Har, maybe she'll go away if we ignore her."  
  
"No, Ron, go ahead without me. I'm sure I can handle Parkinson for a moment." Ron looked at him incredulously, as did Hermione, who had been rather quiet during the past few minutes. "Really, Ron. Hermione. Just go on. I'll be there in a minute."  
  
"Alright, Harry. We'll see you in a few then, right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Harry turned to Pansy after his two friends had rounded the corner. She was standing with her arms folded, the envelope still in her hand, her expression a cross between confusion and doubt.  
  
"Well, Parkinson, what do you want?"  
  
"I have something for you," she glanced around the empty corridor cautiously, as if expecting someone to be listening in. "My father sent it to me today, asking me to give it to you directly." She handed him the envelope, careful not to touch his hand. She gave the hall another cursory glance and said, "He also mentioned it not being safe to send owls."  
  
Harry stared at her. "What?"  
  
"No need to be like that, Potter," she suddenly smirked. With a slight inclination of her head, she abruptly turned and quickly left towards the Slytherin common room.  
  
He stood, completely still, staring at the envelope in his hands, dumbfounded. Pansy Parkinson's father? He turned it over slowly, looking at the delicate scrawl of black ink. It said, simply, "Raven". _Raven_? Something tickled the back of his mind, and he suddenly felt as if he was missing some important piece of a bigger picture.   
  
Swallowing hard, he glanced behind him, but the moment he turned back, he felt ridiculous. There was no need to be so nervous, right? Right. Taking a deep breath, he opened the envelope, tearing the top off as cleanly as possible. Inside he found a single folded piece of lightweight parchment. With two fingers, he slid the letter out and opened it. There was only a single sentence written out.  
  


"_There is a settlement south of ourselves_."

  
  
He blinked and glanced away for a moment. Then he glanced back. '_There is a settlement south of ourselves_', it read. What did that mean? _South of ourselves_… The tickle was back, and again, he felt like he was forgetting something dire. What else was it Parkinson had said? It not being safe to send owls? To whom? Her father? Why would he send owls to her father?  
  
Feeling ill and more tired than he had been before, he stuffed the parchment back into the envelope and fled the corridor for the Gryffindor commons.  
  


++++++++  


  
  
He had ignored Ron and Hermione's questions when he'd come in through the Fat Lady's portrait. He'd hidden the letter, concealed in its envelope, in his bag, inside his Potion's book. He didn't need anyone finding it, even if there were no names or signatures. He wasn't sure he wanted to tell his friends, either. Something told him that maybe they shouldn't know about this right yet, whatever 'this', was.  
  
He'd gone directly to the boys' dorm room and tossed his stuff aside. Maybe if he slept for a bit, just a small nap before dinner, he wouldn't have to think (or worry) about his encounter with Parkinson for a while.  
  
It felt promising.  
  
Without getting under the covers or removing his school robes, he crawled onto his bed and charmed the curtains shut. He fell asleep quickly, fully clothed and rather troubled, curled on his side atop the soft crimson blankets.  
  
His mind was plagued with dreams.  
  
It usually was.  
  


++++++++  


  
  
The boy, whom the Death Eaters rightly called Raven, awoke late in the night. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he rarely ever did. He was still in school robes, and he felt sick when he saw the Gryffindor crest glaring at him from his chest. He lied silently on the bed as minutes passed, staring intently into the darkness above him. He was listening. The names wouldn't come to him but he heard three different breathing patterns and someone's snoring. He was alone in his wakened state.  
  
Calmly he sat up and, pulling the curtains opened on the side closest the window, slid his legs off the edge of the bed quietly. Moonlight was spread across the floor, coming to a rest on his feet. He stood, pulling the robes off himself. He despised wearing them. Once they were off him and lying on the floor, he silently got down on his knees and reached an arm under the bed. He felt around a bit until his hand came to rest on a pool of soft fabric. He pulled it out and smirked, looking at the more dignified set of robes.  
  
It only took him a moment to dress. He stood in front of the window, hands resting on the sill, staring at the moon. He knew he had to do something tonight, something important. But it wouldn't come to him, it wouldn't surface. But then…  
  
_South, south, south, south, south…_  
  
_There's a settlement south…south of ourselves._  
  
He was vaguely surprised but his face remained impassive as he watched the moon. Who'd told him that? Someone…  
  
Parkinson.   
  
Calmly he raised a hand and pushed the windowpanes open. The cool, brisk night air brushed a few strands of black hair from his face. Seconds passed and he stood there, eyes now closed, concentrating. In his mind he saw the shape and he could feel the smooth gloss of inky black feathers. The image melted into that of himself, and then back to the bird.  
  
And then, he simply was.  
  
Unfurling his wings, he took off into the air, merging with the dark sky. The sudden rush of wind picked him up and he pumped his wings, striving to catch rhythm before he tumbled to his death. It didn't take much effort, although it always felt like it did. Beneath him, the Forbidden Forest passed by for a stretch of two miles, and then it became fields, roads, and homes. And then forest again.  
  
_South…south…south _  
  
The town they had stationed themselves at was nearing several miles ahead. He could already sense something nearby. Catching the light of the moon on his feathers, he dipped, nearly brushing the tops of the trees. If it were not for the increased, sharper sight of the raven, he knew he probably would not have seen it. A little house was ahead, encased in trees. It was almost impossible to spot.  
  
Taking the advantage of a conveniently placed opening in the treetops, he swooped downward, narrowly avoiding a branch. He caught himself and wove between the trees, glaring black eyes focused on the small cottage ahead. There was a faint reddish hue dancing on the windows- a fire. So, the inhabitants were awake. Good, it would make things slightly simpler.  
  
The air roughly pulled at his wings as he pushed them back, throwing his feet forward. He closed his eyes against the cold breeze and his talons embedded themselves in the hard ground. Cocking his head, he looked up at the windows. How many lives were at his mercy tonight?  
  
With his eyes firmly closed, he concentrated on his transformation. The lithe, pale form of a human, the feathered black body of a raven, and a human; a human with dark, unruly hair and raw, jaded eyes. And, again, as simply as before, he was. There was no feeling to it, no sensation or pain. It just happened.   
  
He smiled bitterly to himself, eyeing the oak door in front of him. He'd always felt more alive in his other form. Less awkward. But nonetheless. Slowly he raised a hand and rested it on the knob. He tightened his grip and twisted; the door swung open easily, revealing a scene that looked like it had been taken from a child's storybook.   
  
A woman, not old, but nowhere near youth, was sitting in a rather worn chair with a book in her hands. She looked up, startled, when the door creaked open, nearly dropping her book in the process. In a far corner a man, similar in age, was in the middle of finishing what looked to be his dinner. He looked up and froze, a fork loosely held in his right hand.  
  
The murder itself was too easy.  
  
He had easily snapped the woman's neck, leaving her body slumped in its place, the book thrown unceremoniously to the floor. The man, upon seeing the swift death of his wife, had put up a bit of a fight. But it had been fruitless. First, his wrist had been broken; twisted and mangled in the brutal grip. Then, his skull had crashed into the wall with a sickening crack and he'd fallen to the ground in a heap, blood seeping slowly from an unseen wound.  
  
The fire in the hearth had been snuffed out- there was no reason to risk the house burning down. He'd even allowed himself to pick at the dead man's unfinished meal. But, in all honesty, it had been completely tasteless.   
  
With the deed finished, he left the little home, in all its sweetness, and took flight for the second time that night.  
  


++++++++

  
  
Raven looked at the emotionless creature before him, holding a cup of warm mint tea in his hands. He'd been there for less than an hour and already he was growing tired of the Dark Lord's pointless words. The ideas that were constantly thrown at him always seemed to sound rather naïve and desperate. And, they bored him.  
  
His mind drifted as the cool voice talked on. He thought of the man and woman he had killed earlier, the fear that had flitted through their eyes, the unsuspecting terror. They had both been very beautiful in their last moments. The woman had looked younger and the man more alive, with more vigor. Death seemed to do that.  
  
He was about to fall further from reality when his consciousness caught the word 'recruit'. He blinked and turned his critical green eyes to the malevolent face.  
  
"You wish to begin recruiting so soon? It's not even been two years since you rose."   
  
"Ah, but my Raven," the lipless mouth smirked, "The quicker our numbers grow, the quicker we can over throw Dumbledore and his Order of fools."   
  
Raven returned the smirk, eyes dark. "You would think that."  
  
The Lord's expression quickly became a glare. "You don't think so?" he asked distastefully.  
  
"I think we should wait another year or more. But seeing as this is your," he paused, "Operation, I will let you make the decisions." He looked directly into the sneering face solemnly. "When did you wish to begin the recruitment?"  
  
"A month. Possibly sooner."  
  
"Mmm, and who did you think would be most suited for inclusion this soon?" Another glare, but it seemed more imploring if not curious.  
  
"Parkinson. Malfoy. Maybe Knott and Flint."  
  
"I wouldn't include Parkinson. She appears to be more loyal to her family than you, Lord. That can only lead to her failure."  
  
There was a moment of silence in which Raven emptied the china cup and set it down on a small table by his chair.  
  
"How are things going with the werewolves?" he asked, glancing towards a dark window. When he'd arrived, the men had been moving the imprisoned lycanthropes into the cellars of the emptied houses.  
  
"Well. I'm sure they will prove useful when the time comes."  
  
"Will there be any chance of someone missing them? We've had them for two days already."  
  
"It's unlikely. All were loners and had no family to speak of. I made sure of it."  
  
Raven raised an eyebrow. He was sure he knew what the Lord meant when he said he 'made sure of it'. "I think I'll take my leave of you," he said abruptly. "I should see if those incompetents need any assistance."  
  
He stood, inclining his head and left the little house.   
  


++++++++

  
  
There were several Lethifolds* a few meters from an external cellar doorway. Eight Death Eaters were trying to herd them in with feeble Patronuses and none seemed to be succeeding in their purpose. He watched them, eyebrows raised. Then he came forward out of the shadows of the doorway, catching the men's attention.  
  
"Watch it, Macnair," he said as a Lethifold began drifting forward. The man lifted his wand and made another meek attempt at a patronus. The creature faltered for a moment before going out of its way to avoid the deformed silver cloud. Macnair took a few steps back, bumping directly into one of his fellow Death eaters.  
  
Raven shook his head and raised his arm, giving his wrist a sharp jerk. "Expecto patronum." He felt the jet-black stag draw on his energy and closed his eyes, focusing his strength on controlling the disembodied animal. It circled the small group of animated cloaks, conjuring up invisible puffs of dust around its hooves, and pressuring them backward into the open cellar doors.  
  
When the task was completed, the doors closed with a second flick of the wrist and the stag walked lazily to its master, nuzzling his shoulder. Raven smiled coolly, rubbing its neck gently. "That really wasn't so hard," he said, watching the Death Eaters with narrowed eyes, "now was it, men?"  
  
His hand fell away from the stag's neck and the image faded away into nothing. "I think you all should be much more skilled than that. But maybe I'm wrong."   
  
With that, he merged with his other half and in flight, made his way back to Hogwarts.  
  


++++++++

  
  
"You look awfully tired, Harry," Hermione said worriedly, glancing over the top of her book.   
  
"I am," he replied, picking at his breakfast with a fork.  
  
Ron, on his left, frowned. "I thought you got plenty of sleep last night, mate?"  
  
"I did. Maybe it's just stress or something. I don't know."  
  
"Anything to do with what Parkinson wanted you for?"  
  
Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I already told you, Ron, that it was nothing. I can't even remember what it was about. Something pointless and stupid."  
  
"Alright, alright. Whatever."  
  
Hermione glanced between the two boys, shaking her head. Whatever it was, it would come around soon, most likely. Anything concerning Harry seemed to surface at the worst possible time.   
  


------------

  
  
**Author's Note:**   
  
***Lethifolds**-Rare magical creatures found in tropical climates, resembling black cloaks. They kill by suffocating their prey and then digesting it on the spot.  
**MOM Classification:** XXX  
  
God, that took forever, huh? Computer trouble, writer's block. The whole shebang. I apologize and hope the chapter was up to par. Please review and tell me what you think. 


End file.
